


Deep In

by Temaris



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6861964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack’s working very hard at denial, and he’s still not got it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep In

**Author's Note:**

> We all know it works out eventually, but well, this is not that story. This is definitely meant to fit into canon though, so you know :) 
> 
> No specific references to mental health or drugs.

You can't remember if you made a sound the first time you saw him. You think you managed to keep it in. Or maybe it was hidden under the tinny sound of the dance track that this kid -- tiny, blond, neat footed and fast -- is dancing to. Because he's a figure skater. “What the--”

Coach Murray nods at you. You freeze, not even breathing, but he's already speaking, "Yes, I know, but that's just the back half of the dvd. The first half is--" He hesitates, and Hall leans in.

"Hockey. Two years as captain on the junior co-ed team."

You look back at him. The tape is paused, and he is frozen, arms outstretched, body one long lean into a swoop.

"He's on the team, Zimmermann," Murray says and you shake your head.

"D'accord," you mumble. "Yeah. Sure." But you are transfixed. "Can I borrow--" You gesture at the bluray player and Murray pops the tray.

"Sure. Get a feel for how he'll fit into the lineup." He roots around on the desk for a moment and produces two more dvds. "Good thought."

"Thanks, Coach," you say, and get to your feet.

The dvds stay at the bottom of your bag for three days. The frogs will be arriving stupid soon, and you're going to have to deal with the idea that you apparently have a type.

You break them out one evening, after you've conceded defeat. Staring at the ceiling is not respite, because you keep seeing that compact body, leaping and twisting like a salmon, impossible against gravity. Surely he isn't--

He is. You grab the files off the dvds, watch them all. You make notes. None of the three frogs have played on checking sides, and that's going to be the biggest adaptation. You're pretty sure Wicks and O'Meara will adapt well enough, they've the build for it. But you keep coming back to Bittle. You tell yourself that it's because you don't understand what Hall saw in him to offer an athletics scholarship and a spot on the team. You are lying to yourself. You know what they saw: grit and speed and the ability to turn on a dime (and to throw in double axels which you had no idea you could do in hockey skates, but you've seen the kid's celly that one time) and, yeah.

You know what Shitty will see, the second that Bitty is introduced to the rest of the team. You have two choices, ignore Shitty or ignore Bittle. And you know which one is going to cause the least fuss.

You keep your distance.

You see the kid's eagerness falter against the pressure of your disapproval, and then he keeled over like a fainting goat -- you spare a faint grin for Ransom's vivid simile. You'd looked them up after, and no one needs to know that you maybe snorted with laughter at the poor creature. Bittle is certainly ashamed enough for any ten fainting goats (who seem wholly unbothered by the fainting thing.).

But Bittle has to learn, and you know the only way is to either break him or remake him: checking practice, as often as you can stand to do it.

The kid smells of Ax. His hair smells like grass -- not Shitty's kind either. When he sweats his whole face goes red. He's solid muscle under that small frame. When he's concentrating he bites his lip, and he's going to bite clear through it if he ever gets checked while biting at his mouth. Maybe a mouthguard. You can't help learning these things whether you meant to or not.You can smell cookies on him, cookies and pies, the sweet overlay of whatever thing he's baked most recently filling the Haus.

You don't think about him in the shower.

You don't think about him in bed.

You don't think about him in the locker room, and you can't think about the way he beams at you, all sunshine and smiles after that goal.

You especially don't think about the way joy drained from him when you took the wind out of his sails. 

Lucky shot.

It's the sort of brutal, graceless truth that Parse would have said. Once. When you were. Closer.

You don't like what that says about you, and you try harder. Shitty says something about fairness, and you get it you get it.

But this isn't something you can have. Bad enough that you're at college instead of burning up the ice in what would have been your sixth year in the NHL. You can have college. You can even have hockey, and the glimmerings of a reputation that builds as the team exceeds all your expectations. You might even have the chance of a place, if the prospect camps and the casual chats with team GMs and your agent pay off.

But you don't get this. Him. Being with Parse ended in disaster. You're not making that mistake again.

You aren’t.


End file.
